Love, Not Duty
by Lapis Love
Summary: Inspired by the love story and wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. She's a food critic and he's second in line to the throne. AH/AU, no supernatural anything.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Inspired by the incredible love story of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex.**

* * *

 **Washington, DC—2015**

"Your review could ruin me. You didn't even give us a chance. It was a bad night overall. We had employees who called out at the last minute, shipments that were not delivered on time…You can't call it the worst service and food you've ever eaten when you've only gone there once!"

"Angela, I went back twice and each time…I'm sorry to say but things didn't improve. I took everything you said into consideration, and I always frequent a restaurant more than once to make sure it wasn't just a fluke, that I hadn't gone on a night the chef who actually cared about making a masterpiece had been working, and that the restaurant hadn't been tipped off about a critic skulking around.

"The soufflé was not airy as it should have been. It was heavy and thick and I think it gave me ingestion. The braised lamb was tough, dry, and chewy. The cheesecake had a funny smell to it and even after an experimental taste it turned my stomach. The service wasn't much better. I had to ask another server to find my waiter and when he finally showed up to my table, he barely looked at me and spoke to me like I was a waste of his time. The other two servers I had on the different nights I came were a little more personable but not by much. Doing the bare minimum. Yet I saw them speaking enthusiastically with white patrons."

"Are you implying my servers are…?"

"Yep," she cut her off. "Dining while black is a real thing. People who look like me have recounted dining experiences where they expressed receiving poor service because of generalized stereotypes about black people not tipping. I've even spoken with actual servers who have heard comments from their coworkers when they have black patrons that they're not going to make any money. It's infuriating some still live with the myth that black people don't tip when generally we over tip as to avoid falling into that stereotype. Yeah, Angela your servers took one look at me and thought I'd give them pocket change, if that, and in return I got pocket change service."

Needless to say Angela Hardborough was pink in the face.

Bonnie Bennett, food critic extraordinaire swiveled from side to side minutely and waited for the water works or daggers in the form of derogatory words to be hurled straight for her heart. She even expected Angela to stomp her foot and storm out.

What she got was Angela rising to her full height and saying coldly, "I thought we were friends."

"We _are_ friends and that's why I'm being honest."

"If you were truly my friend you'd want the restaurant to succeed; not try to rip it to shreds!"

"You want your friends to lie you? Is that what you want?"

"When it comes to my goals, yes!"

Bonnie bit her lips. Angela blinked. A beat of awkward silence passed before they both dissolved into laughter.

Angela paced back and forth worrying her forehead with agitated fingers. Finally she flung herself into the guest chair. She sighed and in that sigh it seemed she was releasing months of pent up frustration. "You're right. The food sucks. We've changed chefs three times since opening. Our staff is more interested in acting like they're being filmed for a reality show than working. Don't get me started on our vendors and the crates of rotten food we've had to throw out. It's a mess, Bonnie. I could be an entertainment director on a cruise ship but noooo. I let my irresponsible brother convince me to open a restaurant knowing seventy-five percent of restaurants fail."

"Then absorb this criticism, use it to light a fire under your ass, and fall into the twenty-five percent of restaurants that succeed. You have the goods. You just need to find the right ingredients to make it work."

"That's easy to say."

"It can also be easy to do if you honestly want it to work."

"Yeah," Angela murmured in quiet agreement. "I will take what you said under advisement and go from there. Thank you," she said grudgingly.

"You're more than welcome."

"So what's next on your agenda? Who or what are you about to praise or end with your scythe?"

Bonnie fiddled with the mouse on her MacBook, letting her green eyes drift to the article she had been reading for research on the next destination of her international cuisine tour. "A few critics and I have been invited to taste the delicacies created by Master Chef Leandro Esposito who is chef of the Pallas royal family."

"Pallas? Where the hell is that?"

"Somewhere around the Mediterranean. It's a very tiny country. Their total population is less than a million but has a long and rich history, trade of silks and minerals being their biggest cash cow back in the day. Now their revenue comes mostly from tourism. It's a party country for the English aristocrats, and anyone who makes seven figures or more. I leave in two days and I haven't even finished packing."

"So wait a minute," Angela sat up, interest piqued, "you're about to jet off to a foreign country that's a monarchy and you're just _now_ telling me about it?"

"Well, I just found out a couple of days ago. At first I thought it was a joke until I Goggled the place. It's legit. I don't even know how or why I was selected but I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Are you going to be dining in at the palace?"

Bonnie shook her head. "No, Chef Esposito has his own restaurant. We'll be convening there."

Angela nodded. Soon though a look of wicked calculation came over her features that made Bonnie furrow her brows. "Have you looked up the royal family?"

Shrugging, Bonnie opened up the tab she bookmarked, then swiveled her laptop toward her friend who leaned closer. She watched Angela who examined each member of the Pallian royal family. Saw her friend's eyes grow bigger in increments as she went down the line. Held in a giggle when Angela's mouth plopped open, but was curious as to which of the princes had her drooling.

"Take me with you," she begged. " _Please_? I could use a vacation."

Bonnie turned her laptop back around. "Nope, you have your livelihood you need to save."

"Well can you at least slip my number to one of the princes?"

"I doubt I'll even come across them. I'm only going to be there for two days."

"Then find some way to make those two days count, Bon. Don't leave there empty-handed."

"I'll be leaving there with a full belly."

Angela twisted her lips, "If I were you I'd try to leave with a full uterus."

Bonnie guffawed and shook her head.

Five minutes later, she was alone in her office scribbling down furious notes. Stuffing the cap of her pen in her mouth, she tapped a beat on her desk with her fingers, thinking. She opened up the bookmarked page and enlarged the picture she often found herself coming back to.

One by one she studied them.

The stone faced patriarch that with his angles she knew he used to be a knock out when he was younger, and that was proven in his progeny. Next came the matriarch and her ice blue eyes that seemed almost colorless; but you could see her regality. The oldest son stood beside his mother who was a perfect blend of his parents, serious faced but gorgeous. Next to him his brother who was about a hair shorter, sharing his mother's fierce expression and eyes. And finally the younger one who, upon first glance looked adopted. His hair was lighter, he was darker in complexion, and she was unsure about his eye color. But he was just as good looking as his older brothers.

The royal family of Pallas painted a sublime picture of genetics, privilege, and maybe even something of magic. They brought a romanticized glamour that probably hid many dark and ugly secrets, but those secrets were hard to find in the cut of the men's military dress uniforms, and the Queen's beautiful gown.

Nevertheless, Bonnie's gaze wouldn't stop straying to the middle prince. She allowed herself to fantasize for one moment. The two of them meeting, sparks flying, a worldwind romance ensuing that rocked the foundations that upheld long-standing beliefs, walks down the center of a gothic chapel older than any building she's ever stepped in, millions watching across the globe.

It didn't take long for reality to set in. More than likely all the princes, apart from the oldest, he was already married, probably had their future brides picked out. Even more than likely they didn't look a thing like her.

No, she would just go and enjoy the food. She wasn't a little girl anymore. She was too old and practical to think of being swept off her feet by Prince Charming. Fantasies were better off only existing in the mind.

::::

Hood drawn over his head he swept inside the security tight palace not slowing down or breaking stride as he bounded up the stairs taking them two at a time, his feet making hardly a sound on the plush royal blue carpet. Inwardly he seethed because he hated being summoned. There was no other way around describing what it felt like to be pulled away from his private affairs to deal with matters of state aka, his behavior. Many might be blinded by the pomp and circumstance that ruled his life, the pageantry, the uniforms, the tiaras and crowns, but it was a gilded prison. Being your own person was akin to treason; speaking your mind could make you a head shorter, and disregarding tradition and protocol could lead to excommunication. Being the favorite among the people made him the pariah of his family.

He believed he could give it all up for a good reason. One had just never presented itself.

He marched past the gold-plated portrait frames of family members that extended back some hundred years. Refused to acknowledge the heavenly mirage painted on the ceiling that heralded his arrival. Said nothing to the guards in their livery posted outside the doors they thrust open permitting him inside the private office of his parents.

Sitting there on the couch was his mother and hovering by the windows was his father. King and Queen in all their state.

"You got me here now what do you want?" His Royal Highness Prince Damon Salvatore barked imprudently, pushing the hood of his sweatshirt off his head.

His father, the reigning monarch pivoted from the window in a pair of obscenely expensive loafers, a crystal tumbler of brandy in his hand. "Is that anyway to talk to your parents?"

"If you broke out the King's Guard to track me down to discuss my future then you've wasted everyone's time. I'm not changing my mind."

"Damon, you have to be reasonable," his mother Queen Lily implored. "We just want the best for you."

"We'll get to that in a minute," his dad interrupted. "Sit down. We need to have a talk about the latest incident that's caught the media's attention."

"It's all been resolved," Damon rolled his eyes. "We've reached a settlement."

"You shouldn't have been fighting in the first place and over a girl at that," Lily reminded him with an imperious arch of her brow.

"If someone disrespected you wouldn't you want dad to defend you?"

"Sit. Down," Lily completely ignored his question.

Damon rocked on his heels for a moment before acquiescing. He sat adjacent to his mother, keeping the king in his line of sight.

"I'm capable of defending myself, Damon," Lily resumed. "Even if your father wasn't king, the last thing I'd want is him or my sons fighting like an idiot in the street.

"Our family is constantly under pressure to dissolve the monarchy and become a truly democratic nation. Dynasties such as ours don't hold a lot of weight on the stage of the world. We have very little political power so any time _one of us_ makes a stupid decision like fighting in public, it reflects poorly on everyone. Your older brother is on his way to becoming a father. The country should be focused on that and not on who has met the wrong end of your fist."

Damon breathed evenly though his heart was pounding. He was pushing thirty and still being talked to like a child but he knew he deserved it since his temper got away from him at the worst possible times. He didn't always think before he acted…or spoke. The people of Pallas knew him as the temperamental prince, the one with the short fuse but the dashing good looks. He had hundreds of social media pages dedicated to him, but on the world scale was still relatively unknown and he liked it that way. His older brother Anatoly, the crowned prince, had married last year to a woman he was beginning to hate, but his nuptials had drawn the world's attention and for two seconds put Pallas on the map. Since then there had been the occasional outside journalist poking around wondering when the next two princes Damon and Stefan would marry.

If he could get away with it, Damon would remain the middle child bachelor.

Yet he knew that was impossible. He might not believe everyone was born with a predetermined destiny, he knew his parents had exhausted themselves planning his and his brothers' futures, grooming them. From daycare to play groups to sports, schools and colleges, their parents had chosen, vetted, and sealed their decisions by royal decree. The few things the brothers had any say on was who they dated, but even then their mother suggested young ladies they should be seen with at least once or twice. Stefan and Anatoly had fallen into line while he bucked it. Damon was aware he never stood a chance of ruling nor did he want the responsibility. He should have had a bit more freedom, but being the spare didn't always mean he could do as he pleased.

Not entirely.

He slumped against his seat, knowing he had no choice but to heel. "All right. So what do I have to do to appease the crown?"

"I'm so glad you asked," Lily picked up one of the royal dossiers that had been sitting in plain sight on the table. She extended it to her son.

Damon took it and read the single sheet of paper inside. His brow folded as he looked up at his parents, his father seemingly having lost all interest in the conversation. "You want me to cohost an event Chef Esposito is throwing at his restaurant?"

"Yes. The chef has invited food critics from all over, many of them influential in his or her respective country or community, and some financiers. Now that the weather is turning, tourism is dropping but maybe this will give us a boost through the New Year."

"I do this and all is forgiven?"

"Well," Giuseppe finally reentered the tête-à-tête, "not quite all is forgiven. You'll have to make a formal, public apology, and…you'll have to give up the girl."

"What?!" Damon shot to his feet. "I'm not getting rid of her."

"Oh, come on, son!" Giuseppe roared. There he was, Damon thought with a curl of his lip. The dictator, the tyrant. Giuseppe's olive skin began to darken. "The girl has shit for brains. She's a piece of trash and you know it and that's the only reason you're dating her."

Damon's smile was chilly and arrogant. "Yet that hasn't stopped you from checking out her ass and tits when I bring her around for tea."

"All right, that's enough," Lily pushed to her feet as well, cheeks coloring over. No woman wanted to be reminded of her husband's wandering eye. "Damon, you have your marching orders. Be there tomorrow night and _on time_. Be gracious to our guests and don't embarrass us. I'll speak with you shortly."

Eyes still on his father, Damon gave a perfunctory bow, and left.

He wasn't surprised that as soon as the doors shut behind him, his private secretary was there waiting. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, clasping her trusty tablet and portfolio to her chest.

Damon glanced at her as she fell in step exactly one pace behind him in her kitten heels. "Rose," he said.

"Your highness."

"How much of that did you overhear?"

"Enough, but then again I knew it was coming."

"Of course."

"I'm sending you the list of guests who will be at Esposito's," her fingers flew over her tablet and a second later Damon felt his phone vibrate. "The event begins promptly at seven. Your car will be 'round to escort you at 6:30 where you will arrive no later than 6:40 where cocktail hour will be winding down."

Sighing, Damon pulled out his phone and opened up the list, scrolling through names and faces. He knew without having to be told that it was his job to memorize the attendees and at least one personal fact about them. Rose was still droning on as he led the way to his apartment on the estate when he flew by one particular invitee that had him scrolling back to get a second and more thorough look.

He read her name and stats. American. Food critic with some six hundred thousand subscribers on one social media platform alone. Two degrees, one in media arts and the other in journalism. Educated. Alluring, soul searing green eyes. Beautiful smile. Just plain…beautiful.

Damon couldn't stop staring.

He walked straight into a wall.

"Your highness!" Rose was beside him, petting him, checking for injury.

Damon brushed her off, though he rubbed the spot his head connected with the wall. "I'm all right."

"Are you sure because you walked into the wall pretty hard."

"I'm fine," he grumbled. His cheeks and ears began burning in embarrassment. "I um, I need to make a request. My parents want me at this thing then I need her seated at my table," he showed the profile on his phone.

Rose stifled a smile. "So Ms. Louden won't be your plus one?" Damon merely gave her a look. "I'll see that it's arranged."

"Good," he maneuvered down the appropriate corridor. "Oh and…send her a car."

"Sir?" that request threw Rose for a loop. "You want to send one of the palace vehicles?"

"No, one of my cars. See that it's done discreetly, Rose. I'm counting on you."

:::::

Everything happened on warp speed from the moment her airplane landed and she was taxied to her hotel. She had enough time to shower, throw on her dress that had been loaned to her by a designer friend, do her makeup, and pin her hair to the side.

When she stepped out on the cobblestone sidewalk to hail a taxi, Bonnie saw a sign with her name on it. Frowning, she approached the suited gentleman who stood next to a sleek luxury vehicle with completely blacked out windows.

"Signora Bonnie Bennett," the driver addressed her with a very distinct accent.

"Yes, that's me."

"Please allow me to be your escort for the evening. My name is Laurencio. Pleased to meet you."

"Umm…" she let out a nervous laugh. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well. Did Chef Esposito arrange this?"

"No, ma'am but someone close to the chef who cares very much that you have an excellent and memorable experience," Laurencio moved to the rear of the car and opened the door. "Please?"

Bonnie was still unsure. This man could be a sex trafficker for all she knew. She hadn't hid the fact she would be traveling for a dining experience with a royal chef, though she kept mum about the exact location for security reasons. She wouldn't reveal that until she was back and could edit her footage. Therefore no one apart from her close friends, Chef Esposito and his staff should know she was here.

As if he sensed her unease, Laurencio softened his features. He had a stern face by creation that was hardened after serving three tours of war. "On pain of death I've been sworn to see to your safety every step of the way. I mean you no ill-will."

"Pain of death, hun?" Bonnie sauntered closer, adding a bit more spring to her step. "I've only heard that expression being used by royals." It was a leading observation that was met with a wall of silence. "You promise to get me there and back with no detours?"

Laurencio nodded. "I give you my word."

In return, Bonnie gave him a sidelong glance before sliding into the car. The door was closed with a soft thump and two seconds later, Laurencio was pulling away from her hotel.

On the drive to the venue Bonnie was able to take in the beautiful seaside capital of Pallas. The colorful residences jutting from rolling hills, the tight streets teeming with pedestrians, the music that could be heard nearly everywhere, and the occasional obelisk that marked where a significant and ancient structure used to be. She could honestly see herself moving here one day when she was done with the hustle, bustle, and politics of Washington DC.

Just as he promised, Laurencio got her to the venue in short order. She waited as he bounded the long hood of the luxury sedan and opened her door, presenting his hand for her to take so he could assist her out of the car. She might not come across any member of the royal family, but the minute her stiletto hit the rolled out red carpet that led to a breathtaking building made of stone and glass, Bonnie felt like royalty.

There was some press jumbled together separated from storming arriving guests by velvet rope. She was a bit surprised when a photographer or two called her name. She smiled, posed for a picture before shuffling inside.

Nirvana was the first word to pop into Bonnie's mind when she cleared the entrance after her invitation had been checked by security. Heaven came next as she sampled the champagne and hor d'oeuvres that burst endless flavor into her mouth. And then…an earthquake when those seated at her table suddenly clamored to their feet.

Bonnie looked around in confusion for a moment until she looked to her left and slowly her gazed traveled up.

It took a minute for her to realize who she was looking at. The pieces were there but they didn't register or make sense. For how could it make sense when she had _never_ seen a pair of blue eyes like that before in real life? How could she convince herself any part of him was real? Because real men or mostly the men she encountered didn't have that chiseled of a jawline, nor that straight of a nose, or hair that glossy and black that was somewhat of a chaotic mess but didn't make him look sloppy. They certainly did not look like they leapt off the pages of a Disney fairytale book. They looked ordinary, handsome in a way that had to be manipulated either surgically or with styling. This man was classically and brutally fucking gorgeous.

"Your highness," those gathered at her table chorused.

And she was still sitting there. On her ass. Gawking.

The real astonishing thing was, he hadn't stopped looking at her in return.

He stretched out a hand. Bonnie automatically took it and, with as little pressure as possible, he pulled her to her feet.

She almost swallowed her saliva down her windpipe when he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Her heart was a thundering beat in her ribcage.

There was a collective gasp and just as Bonnie suspected every single eye in the room was on them.

But she didn't care. She felt something very significant happening while at the same time she was losing something, but she couldn't for the life of her say what it was.

And again she didn't care. She'd figure it out later.

Damon kissed her hand again. "Welcome to my kingdom."

Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.

 **A/N: Like? Hate? Intrigued? Indifferent? Thank you for reading in any capacity. Please drop me some feedback.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I know, I know, I know. Apologies it's taken so long for a second chapter. I had immediately started working on the second chapter after receiving so much awesome feedback. THANK YOU, GUISE! But then I got stuck. Big. Time. I didn't stop to consider I'd have to, not just build a romance based on the love story of real people, but also creating a country and its culture and a monarchy on top of everything else. Did I get in over my head, probably. Then everything I was coming up with felt boring, and didn't feel like Bamon. I was struggling with not hitting you all with infodumps about the country, the dialogue, and finally it hit me I didn't even have a plot in place, because I can't write just a straight romantic story. But now I do have a plot.**

 **Now, what I want to tell you is to pay attention to the dates. This chapter starts out in the future and then switches to the past. I've also changed the name of Damon's country. Pallas sounds so much better than Aventine, and the name Pallas is important. I'll have Damon tell you all about that when the plot gets there. All right, let me stop rambling. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Laurus Proper, Pallas, Tuesday—2018**

The devil works hard but the press worked harder. They painted her as Odile, the black swan, pun more than intended, the villain in some one-sided romance that never was a thing in the first place. She was the antagonist who came and disrupted the status quo, got her hooks into the prince and radicalized tradition. Many embraced her with open arms, plenty more shunned her, and as much as she tried to stay neutral on the decimation of her character, there was only so much a person could take.

Break. It's what they wanted her to do.

His hands were cramping from the cold. Vigorously he rubbed them together and blew on them, but even his breath was frosty and did nothing but make the joints stiffer. Hiking up the collar of his jacket, and tugging the bill of his cap lower on his head, he fidgeted to generate warmth. He'd been hiding for the last three hours in the prickliest bush probably known to man, camera at the ready, lying in wait for the perfect opportunity to capture _the_ shot.

In this business the saying was more than true that the early bird got the worm. In this business where a single picture could gain notoriety for an amateur photographer, or make one a millionaire if you knew how to negotiate when it came to exclusive rights, what some saw as dishonorable slime work, he saw as preserving history. Yes sometimes the images he caught, his subjects wished he hadn't and often threatened to sue him or had sued him. At the end of the day he saw it as a fair trade. They might be embarrassed for a little while but they'd be remembered. For what would be the point of living if everyone forgot you the moment you died?

They could disagree with his politics, call him amoral for selling private moments to the highest bidder without any attack of conscience, but he didn't force anyone into the compromising positions they unfortunately found themselves in. His hands were clean on _that_ end.

Nevertheless his work was important, doubly important because the world had forgotten this little slip of a country even existed, or heard of it for the first time _because_ of the two people he was currently waiting to capture on film.

A small grin curled Otto Pietsch's thin lips. He envisioned the other media sites scrambling to procure their own copy of his shot. The image would be a grainy blob of over duplicated pixels by the time it circulated to the lesser known sites that had to rely on clickbait titles to procure traffic. No one knew of this meeting a part from the one who set it up—his inside contact who better not had bullshitted him about this, the couple he was trolling, and finally the person they had come here to see.

Otto hoped he hadn't arrived too late. He hadn't been given an exact time, just an approximation of one. "They should be there anywhere between half noon to three o'clock." He'd been given worst windows of time before.

His thoughts turned to the inflammatory article that would accompany his photo. Since the moment they announced their relationship to the world there had been an insatiable appetite, interest, _obsession_ about their courtship. How it started, what was happening at every single step, milestone. When it would end. Body language and sex relationship "experts" had made the rounds on all the major talk shows analyzing every smile, frown, touch, lack of touch, gauging disinterest based on some antiquated and racist scale. Who was more in love, who was acting, who was being paid? Three years later and still so many remained skeptical about their love.

He didn't have an opinion one way or another. But perhaps the negativity had finally reached them and it was starting to chisel and chip away at what they had fought to have. Otto could speculate with the best of them and, initially like he said, he didn't care. So long as they stayed together he could make money off of them, profit from their triumphs and from their losses evenly.

Well maybe not totally evenly. He did make more when he snapped photos that made _her_ look like a spoiled diva unwilling to let go of her American customs, and _him_ as if he were looking to return his mail ordered bride.

Sticking a new piece of gum in his mouth, Otto's green eyes narrowed on the house. That door didn't appear as if it were going to open anytime soon. If only he could _hear_ what was going on. How much would it cost to invest in a listening device?

They kept their relationship quiet and out of the papers for a very long time. Otto could commend them for that, but it still rankled that they had been deeply involved under everyone's nose and no one had picked up on it sooner. He couldn't help where his mind wandered thinking about those early days and what it must have been like, what they had gotten into. His girlfriend, the romantic between the pair of them, would probably sigh and think their courtship was the stuff of legends, something to rival King Arthur and Guinevere.

Otto knew fairytales only existed in children's movies, and based on the prince's prior dating history he had one type and one method of securing a conquest. Wining and dining had nothing to do with it. The prince was a hunter and like all good hunters he constantly chased and went after bigger game.

That woman he was with now was no different. Even if she had done what others failed to do. Convince a prince to marry her.

Otto was sure her days were numbered.

::::

 **Ladon, Pallas, Friday, three years ago**

Lightning flashed right above the roof of the Pinguicula Centre and the percussion of thunder boomed so loudly it rattled the delicate pieces of crystal in the chandeliers. People jumped at the noise and looked skyward. One innocuous drop of water turned into two before multiplying and before long, heavy sheets of rain fell on the glass ceiling.

Bonnie Bennett found her gaze glued on the underside of Prince Damon's chin, fascinated by the column of his throat. She saw the tiny hairs of an incoming beard adorn his jaw; saw the vein bulge on the side of his neck. This was probably the first time in her life she found a throat attractive.

Little by little he lowered his head and she was pinned to the spot by irises so offensively blue they didn't seem real.

Prince Damon squeezed her fingers gently, regaining her attention. If he said, "My lady" she was going to wilt into an unattractive puddle of fangirl.

"Will you keep this seat warm for me, Miss Bennett?" he indicated the chair next to hers.

Bonnie blinked dumbly up at Damon. If Angela or any number of her friends had been around they would have said they'd keep more than a chair warm for him. Bonnie had her moments where she approached situations and people unapologetically, but for whatever reason, her courage had gone AWOL.

Maybe it went into hiding because of the grin he was giving her. It was the kind of grin that was enigmatic and maybe even a little sweet apart from its edge of calculation. And he was still holding her hand. But you know, it felt strangely natural to Bonnie. She met people all the time in her line of work but rarely did she ever make an instant connection. This…this felt different.

Do you feel it too?

"You know my name?" Bonnie spluttered.

"Your name isn't the only thing I know about you," he said. "I wouldn't be very good in my role if I didn't know who you were. That being said I think I can trust you to make sure no one takes this seat. You will guard it with your life, won't you?"

"Guard it with my life? That sounds extreme." Bonnie facetiously looked around. "But seeing as how every other seat is currently occupied I guess I will save this one for you. Just this time. Don't make it a habit." She blanched a little once realizing she was acting a bit too familiar with a royal prince she met just five seconds ago. Bonnie winced in anticipation of seeing anger or offense coming from Prince Damon, but what she got shocked her again.

Mirth dancing in his eyes. His grin widened into a full-blown smile that lasted for two seconds before stoicism set in. Frowning at the quick change Bonnie realized the cause of it was a woman who came up behind the prince and whispered something to him.

"All right," he said to the woman. "Excuse me," he addressed Bonnie.

The woman standing next to Bonnie grabbed her arm, giggling and gushing in French as soon as Prince Damon left the table. Bonnie barely heard her. Could hardly hear anything over the roar of blood rushing to her head before it drained and settled deep in her stomach making it feel hot. She stood there, lightheaded, as she watched the prince work the room, shaking hands and kissing cheeks.

She followed him as best she could and saw him take the stage to give opening remarks. He greeted the audience in his native language, and directed everyone to take their seats. The prince didn't begin speaking right away. He stood there, gripping the podium, looking out at the sea of faces. Bonnie's heart galloped every time it seemed he focused right on her. He leaned closer to the microphone.

"Those who know me well will tell you not to put your trust in me. Not to turn your back on me. To never leave room for a loophole because I will find a way to use it against you. But when I tell you that you will never taste anything like what Chef Leandro Esposito and his dedicated staff has prepared, you'll know I'm not being pretentious or even biased in order to help a friend. Though I can be those things for the greater good, of course." He paused as the room filled with polite laughter. "Chef Esposito has been a renowned chef for over thirty years, a pioneer in developing new techniques and technology to improve dining experiences, while spearheading the culinary program at Aion College which produces seventy new chefs a year. He and his keen staff also prepares nutritious and flavorful meals for the elderly, hospice patients, and youth throughout the year. I count it a privilege to share with you all what my family gets to experience night after night…culinary excellence that is matched by none. So on behalf of their royal majesties and myself, thank you all for being here, and may you eat until your belly bursts. Thank you."

Thunderous applause rang out as Damon cleared the podium, wove through the tables occasionally, but absently, acknowledging those who reached out a hand for him to shake.

Green eyes widened when Bonnie realized the prince was serious about her keeping the seat next to her warm because he was headed straight for her table. Wait. Was this _his_ table? She had been seated at the same table as a member of the royal family? Bonnie's hand itched to reach for her phone but they were prohibited from filming or taking pictures of tonight's event.

Prince Damon strode closer and closer until he was at her side, pulling out the chair, and placing his lean form on it. Their eyes met again; his—boldly, hers—shyly.

"I really loved your speech," the person seated to his left cooed.

"Thank you."

And that prompted others to launch into praising Damon for doing what he had been strong-armed into doing.

"The right amount of self-depreciation, humor, and…warning, perhaps?" Bonnie gave him a sidelong glance once the praise died down.

Damon reached between his legs to scoot his chair closer to the table. "Perhaps. I'm not the best at public speaking."

"Now false modesty. You had everyone captivated and you know it. You actually drew the moment out, which reminded me of Michael Jackson's performance at the 1993 Super Bowl. Although your pause wasn't as dramatically long as his but it served the same purpose. You thrive in front of a crowd."

"You reached that conclusion after a minute-long speech?"

"No. I reached that conclusion, Your Highness from…" Bonnie clammed up. She didn't want to admit she may have YouTube'd some of his prior engagements, bingeing clips of him interacting with crowds, making appearances. The camera loved him and he filled up the lens with an immeasurable amount of charisma. It was a natural skill, like a chameleon he could blend into any environment and appear to be right at home.

"From what, Miss Bennett?"

She made the mistake of looking at him directly. His pupils dilated, expanding until a thin circle of blue could be seen. Her nostrils flared, and her breathing turned a bit labored. She shook off the silky web he was trying to weave around her and stared at her dinner plate.

Damon tilted his head, "What has your tongue?"

"Nothing does."

"Prove it doesn't. Finish your thought. I can take it. Do you fear offending me?"

"Will I lose any vital organs or my head if I do?"

Damon chuckled darkly. "We're a country of lovers, Miss Bennett. Although I do enjoy a good fight every now and a then, but no. You might, however, lose dessert privileges."

"We can't have that now can we? All right I was going to say, I learned that you thrive in a crowd from watching a few of your prior engagements. You're a natural with people."

"You're good with people too."

"How do you know?" Bonnie challenged playfully. Yet her spark of playfulness was erased when the prince leaned closer, so close she smelled more than his aftershave but the brand of soap he used. So close that when he spoke his lips lightly grazed the shell of her ear. That small touch, that intimate contact felt like she walked across a live wire.

"I guess that makes us the perfect pair of voyeurs. I've been watching you every night before I go to bed," Damon whispered and pulled back to study her with the intensity he was known for. "I love the way you talk about food, and I especially love seeing how excited you get when you discover a new dish or try a recipe. My favorite…watching you make bread. Never have I envied dough before."

They stared at one another unblinkingly. Was he giving her the signal to shoot her shot? Should she take it if he were? Hallmark, Lifetime, and Netflix movies were made about this shit she was presently living. Suddenly Bonnie lost her appetite. She didn't care about the dinner she'd yet to partake of. Wasn't concerned about memorizing details about the meal for her vlog. The foremost thought in her brain was sneaking off to a dark and quiet corner with the prince and…

Unfortunately, Chef Esposito chose that golden moment to grab the microphone to introduce the courses and give a brief but detailed history of its origins. The crowd oohed and awed while the wait staff performed their own rendition of a ballet, collecting empty plates before dropping the next course on the table. It was beautifully choreographed. The colors of the dish, the presentation were not only a feast for the stomach but the eyes as well. Everyone was eating good.

Bonnie tried to get her bearings together. Her hand shook when she reached for her water glass and sipped thirstily. Her fumbling hands continued to be a nuisance throughout dinner and she caught a few disapproving looks from others seated at the table. What rattled her even more were the moments she could feel the prince looking right at her. But anytime she chanced catching him in the act, his gaze would be directed elsewhere.

Unbeknownst to Bonnie it was hard as hell for Damon to keep his eyes off of her. He was _too_ aware of her. Every tiny adjustment she made, every morsel of food she swallowed, every time she wrapped her slender fingers around the stem of her wineglass, he had unconsciously bitten his bottom lip.

Damon's mind was racing. How could he get her alone? How could he extend their time together? He was well aware of the eyes watching him. Judging him. He had to be careful about his next move because one of the people seated at his table was a gossip columnist who called himself a journalist, and there was no love lost between them. He may have already painted a target on Bonnie's back by giving her face time, but Damon was falling back on his womanizer reputation that the moment he shared with Bonnie would be dismissed as him being him.

Someone had asked the prince about his sister-in-law's pregnancy to which he responded his brother's wife was doing fine. That inquiry turned out to be Pandora's Box and segued into questions and complaints about everything from immigration to declining school districts. The Prince listened but he didn't have much to offer in terms of when anything would be done, or if the king or parliament would ever address a certain matter.

Halfway into the fourth course, Damon rose from the table. Bonnie glanced up at him, noticing his brow was a little sweaty. The servers stumbled and paused in mid-action, the live orchestra collectively hit a bad note. Chair legs scraped across the floor as everyone rose. Bonnie, this time, was one of the first ones to jump up.

"Chef Esposito, thank you for a lovely evening. Everyone…I bid you a goodnight."

Damon buttoned his jacket and Bonnie waited for some sort of signal or a look or a personal salutation from him. She got nothing but a wane smile and his back as he left the table and the restaurant altogether.

"Pretty to look at, doubtful anything of substance lives in that head," sniffed one man who had a beak of a nose and a slim build. "I knew he would leave the minute he was bombarded with questions about what's being done to improve the quality of living. That is what our taxes are going to, ladies and gentleman."

Heat burned behind Bonnie's ears. She pleaded with herself to stay in her lane because she didn't have a dog in this fight. Despite that the urge to come to Damon's defense was iron strong.

There were titters, of course, a couple of guffaws, and one outright fake cough to conceal a giggle.

"And we know why he was here. Not because Chef Esposito cooks for his family, but for PR. Clean up his image. He's wasting his time."

" _Hush_ Carl," a lady wearing white admonished him. "One of the queen's closest friends is here. You want her to overhear you talking badly about the _ragazzo_?"

"Let her hear. You think anything I've said won't turn up in the papers in the morning? Don't be naïve. And if they can't take criticism…" he went into a long rant in Palvish, the official language of Pallas, ending his spiel with a sneer before pouncing on his unfinished veal.

The courses changed once again. Dessert with coffee or tea was served. Bonnie couldn't eat another bite yet thankfully the night was drawing to a close. The crowd began to thin with some stumbling home with full bellies, others energetic and ready to continue the night somewhere else. Bonnie managed to sit down and chat with Chef Esposito for a few minutes, recording their conversation on her phone with his permission. Yet through their chat she had to stop herself more than once from asking any questions about the prince.

It's one and done, let it go, girl, she chastised herself.

Eventually Bonnie made her way to the exit. The rain hadn't stopped or slowed. It fell in steady sheets. The heat that had been absorbed and trapped in the ground now came back up as steam. Gingerly, stragglers such as herself made their way outside, some risking the onslaught, others waiting for it to ease up so they could make a dash for their vehicles. Those who splurged and hired a car service were quickly whisked away. Bonnie stood beneath the glass awning wondering if Laurencio was still around. Her benefactor/benefactress had made sure she had a way to the event; however, it didn't mean they paid for her way home as well.

And that was the thing. Who hired a car for her? _A close friend of Chef Esposito's_ , Laurencio had said. He had been ordered on pain of death not to reveal the identity of the car's owner. The cogs of her mind turned. She had been seated at the prince's table. Esposito was the chef of the royal family…

The sleek black luxury vehicle pulled up interrupting her train of thought. Laurencio bounded out of the car, wide black umbrella in his hand. He met her under the awning.

"Signora."

"That's Prince Damon's car, isn't it?"

His expression never wavered, eyes never averted, he had the perfect poker face. "Did you enjoy your evening, signora?"

"It was beautiful. Are you going to answer my question or not?"

"Come. I imagine you must be tired from your long journey and full from a good supper. I'll take you back to your hotel now."

"I met him, you know. The prince. He seems nice. Charming. Charming enough to authorize the use of his car for a total stranger."

"There are some areas of the road that are partial to flooding. We should go before things get worse."

Bonnie sighed and conceded. She wasn't going to get a word out of him.

Twenty minutes later she was dropped off in front of her hotel, and about an hour and a half after that dressed in an oversized shirt, she wrapped her hair while looking out the window. Lightning flashed intermittently but it was no longer raining.

" _I've been watching you every night before I go to bed."_

"Sweet dreams, fair prince."

:::::

The next day it was so hot the heat had a taste and smell. Pungent. Foamy and coppery like blood baking in the sun. Sweat trickled in constant little rivers out of pores, soaked into the collars and armpits of shirts, made jeans stick like a second skin. The sun was so bright you still had to squint behind ultraviolet resistant lenses. Besides the discomfort of shooting B-roll for her channel during a sweltering summer day, she had accomplished her goal.

Bonnie extended her legs beneath the wrought iron table, tilted her head back to enjoy the breeze wafting from the sea that was about a quarter mile away. Summer in Pallas was beautiful. The way the light hit the sandstone buildings, the heavy perfume of the hills and forest wafting to the center of the capital that mingled with the rich scent of restaurants who had their doors and windows thrown open.

She sat forward to take another bite of her gyro and sip her pomegranate juice.

The sound of masculine laughter caught her ear. She looked a little to her right and saw two gents. Their barrel chests and rotund bellies jiggled with their laughter. One of them looked right at her. She watched as he said something to his friend who leaned to the side to get a better look at her. They ogled her legs, her breasts which yes she did have some side boob action going on in the flowy cotton dress she donned. Bonnie was getting annoyed. She took off her shades giving them the full effect of her green eyes since they wanted to act like they had never seen a woman before.

That really set them off then.

"Idiots," she mumbled under her breath.

Bonnie wiped her mouth and fingers. Her server approached; a handsome and gangly twentysomething with black hair, dark expresso colored eyes and a neatly groomed beard. He carried a tray that was laden with a shot glass and a plate of dessert. The dessert had layers of meringue, melograno sponge, and from the fragrance, pitaya filling.

"Oh this is beautiful but I didn't order this."

"It is from the gentleman in the gray shirt. It's his way of saying he hopes you have a good day."

Bonnie looked at the guy her server indicated. He raised his glass of water toward her. "He doesn't want anything in return does he?"

"No, signora. A sweet for a sweet, that is all. May I?" he pantomimed setting down the tequila and dessert. Bonnie moved her hands out of the way and mouthed a 'thank you' to her benefactor who showed her all of his pearly whites in return.

"I have a question."

"Yes, signora?"

"What's the one place I should definitely see before going home?"

"Ah, there're lots of places to see. The Murgese Palace or Murge House as we call it. The Thibault ruins, Veronia Grove, and Opylae Falls. But if you want to see something truly spectacular then you'll want to go to the Damysus Gardens."

"A garden?"

Her server blushed. "I know what you're thinking. It's the same thing all tourists think when they hear the word garden. But it's not what you think, and I won't say more than that or it'll ruin the effect once you see it. I promise, signora, you won't regret it."

"With that kind of a sell I hope not. Thank you for the suggestions."

Her server nodded and bustled to check on his other customers.

Bonnie sampled the tequila slowly. The flavor of caramel and rhubarb exploded on her tongue. She had never tasted this flavor of tequila before and highly approved. Picking up her tiny fork, she dug into the cake, taste buds tingling and firing near painfully. More flavors than the ones she visibly saw attacked her tongue. Forget about taste heaven, she was experiencing food nirvana. Her knee started bouncing and Bonnie repressed a shout. And that shout nearly became real when an uninvited stranger plopped down in the seat across from her.

"What the—?"

If wearing sunshades and a baseball cap pulled low over his head was supposed to be a disguise it wasn't a very good or creative one. If you were familiar with his facial bone structure, and the Latin tattoo on his inner right forearm, you'd know who he was with a single glance.

Bonnie's jaw flopped open out of pure, uncut shock.

"We have approximately thirty-five seconds, maybe less or maybe more before I'm recognized. So I have a very simple question for you."

"How did you…?"

"No, no, no. I'm asking the questions. Do you want to see my country through my eyes, because you won't get this chance again?"

"Is this real life right now?" Bonnie shook her head.

"We're running out of time."

The murmurs were starting. Necks were craning. Hands were dipping into purses and pockets, phones were being whipped out.

"Twenty seconds, Bonnie before I have to get up and disappear. You're leaving tomorrow, I assume, and I have an engagement tonight that I've committed to. These next few hours are the only hours I have to myself and I want to spend them with you. Oblige me."

Her ears were ringing, heart racing and suddenly she was that shy, prepubescent girl who blushed and giggled just thinking about the cute football player everyone had a crush on. She was thirty-one years old. Where was her pride? Bonnie cut herself some slack. Her reaction couldn't be helped. She had gone to bed thinking about Damon and what ifs; woke up this morning with the prince heavily on her mind, and here he was, imploring her to spend time with him.

Out of her peripheral she saw a few brave souls stand up from their seats (in their minds) inconspicuously inching to her table. On the sidewalk people were slowing down, doing double takes.

Someone screamed.

"Ten seconds, bellesa," Damon pressured. He was already halfway out of the seat.

"Bellesa? What does that mean?"

"Beauty. Are we leaving?"

Bonnie squinted, still not a hundred percent certain running away with the man was a smart move. "Will I regret this?"

He smiled then. A deceptively sweet smile, "No, you won't. Are you finished stalling? The sharks smell blood and I'd like to get the hell out of the ocean."

"I need to see your eyes first."

"If I remove these glasses then, as you Americans say, the jig will be up."

"Please? If you want me to come with you I need to see what's in those baby blues."

A pair of young women was less than five feet from them, whispering excitedly to one another in Catalan. Bonnie had no idea what they were saying, but if she had to guess they were probably placing bets on if that really was Prince Damon or just someone who looked an awful lot like him.

Seeing that he was seconds from being swarmed, Damon acquiesced to Bonnie's strange request. He pulled his shades down just enough for her to see the size, shape, and color of his eyes. He could only assume what she was looking for. Trust? Desire? Ill-intent? A weird fission of heat coursed through him when their gazes locked like horns. He felt like he was being autopsied, exposed, but not judged. Self-consciousness almost took root in him, but the feeling was disbanded the moment Bonnie picked up her wristlet, camera, and stood from the table.

He got to his feet the minute he heard:

"Excuse me, are you Prince Damon?"

"It's him. I know it is!"

He ducked his head while taking Bonnie's hand. Urgently he said, "Let's go."

She hesitated while fiddling with her wristlet to take out cash, "I need to pay the bill."

"It's already been paid for plus tip." Damon ushered them both as smooth and calmly as he could down the street which they crossed before reaching the intersection, weaving between cars that honked at them.

Bonnie couldn't escape feeling she was being herded. Well, with the prince next to and a little behind her, one hand firmly on her hip, the other holding her hand. To onlookers they were a couple out enjoying a lazy Saturday afternoon. Several chemical reactions happened within Bonnie whose heart hadn't stopped its incessant pounding, and kicked up even more notches as they crossed several blocks before darting into an alley. A sleek, black sports car with heavily tinted windows was parallel parked next to a loading dock.

The locks disengaged, the passenger door opened, and the next thing Bonnie knew her butt was being hugged by supple leather seats. She noticed his family Coat of Arms was sowed into the headrests.

Prince Damon fired up the engine. A blast of cool air pumped from the vents cooling down the interior rapidly. Damon palmed the steering wheel and drove to the end of the alley at a sedate pace. He waited for traffic to clear, made a left turn, spared Bonnie a glance before stomping on the gas.

"Where are we going?" she hastily buckled her seatbelt.

"Someplace where we can talk."

"Why do you want to talk to me?"

Damon settled against the seat, giving Bonnie somewhat of a baffled look. "Anyone tell you, you ask questions that have obvious answers?"

"Anyone tell you that people don't like being given ultimatums in a high pressure situation? How did you know I was at that bistro? Were you following me?"

Damon's silence immediately put her on high alert.

"All right. I'm thinking this is a mistake."

"Why? I mean you no harm."

"You were following me or had me followed, both, I don't know! I don't think that's cute. I don't care if you're second in line to a throne. That shits not cool."

"Are you really terrified to be alone with me, Bonnie? If you are I can pull over and let you out, let you find your way back to your hotel in a city where you know no one."

Her eyes widened. "That's not making me feel better."

Damon thought over his words and realized how threatening they sounded and that was the last thing he wanted her to feel. Threatened. "I'm shitting this," he muttered more to himself.

Bonnie heard him anyways. "Yeah, well. If you wanted to see me again you could have phoned the hotel."

"If I had, would you have agreed to see me?"

"Only a fool would turn down meeting you. But…honestly I'm not sure what I would have said."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You're you and I'm me. I'm not saying that to put myself down. I think I'm awesome. I just…"

"We're just people, Bonnie."

Don't get weak because of the way he said your name. Don't get wet either, Bonnie exhaled a breath.

Damon went on, "That sounds naively simple but it doesn't make it any less true."

"No. Yes, it does sound simple but it's far more complicated. I'm just surprised."

"Hmm, I guess I can understand that. You want to know a secret? What's scaring you about this is scaring me."

Bonnie gave him a speculative look. "Is it? You have a reputation. Nothing seems to fluster you."

"You know me through pictures and Wikipedia at the least, I'm assuming. Pictures are deceiving and don't tell the full story."

"I know that."

"So how can you say that nothing flusters me?"

Nibbling the corner of her bottom lip, Bonnie sighed, "I guess I can't say. I don't want to make assumptions about you because I hate it when people do it to me."

"Then that's another thing we have in common. People think they know me because a _source_ reported some alleged event that never happened. They don't care about the truth. I'm not what anyone believes I am. They believe what they want."

"What do they believe you are?"

Damon took his eyes off the road. "They don't believe I'm human."

Bonnie gulped. Maybe the ominous way he said it should have scared her but she understood. If anyone were to take a peek at the comments section of her vlog, Instagram, her twitter mentions, the vitriol that was hurled at her for having the audacity to live her best life while being a black woman, many didn't see her as human either. However, she sensed people not seeing the prince as human was a tad different. He had a bit of a mean streak. She saw that in clips of his run-ins with the paparazzi. Family feuds that became public fodder. The people of Pallas loved the middle son of Giuseppe and Lily but they weren't ignorant of the fact he was a hothead.

"So if you're scared that you're not safe with me…if you want me to turn this car around, I'll do it. We can shake hands and say it was nice to meet you and go our separate ways. I won't contact you again. Where things go next is entirely up to you. But…I'm really fucking hoping there's a part of you that wants to spend time with me as much as I want time with you."

Damon braced himself for her refusal. Bonnie gave herself a moment to fully think things over.

"I'm willing to flow in the moment to see what happens," she revealed. "I'm also going to text my grandmother and best friend to let them know I'm with a dark-haired, blue-eyed man driving a Maserati."

Damon huffed out a laugh. "If you must."

"I do. And don't think this is a special case I'm making. I do this anytime I have a date. Can never be too careful."

"Trust me," Damon spoke softly, thinking of the past. "I understand."

Bonnie typed out her text as promised and settled into the seat. Some of the tension in the car leaked out like air from a tire coaxing Damon to ease his death grip off the steering wheel.

"Now that you're mine for the next few hours what would you like to see?"

Bonnie couldn't ignore the 'your mine' and how possessive it sounded, but she definitely ignored the goosebumps that coated her arms. "I thought you were going to show me your country through your eyes?"

He grinned. "I can do that but I'm also curious about how my country looks from yours. So…?"

Bonnie stared at the camera in her lap, an idea coming to her. She lifted the device while the corners of her lips curled into a roguish smile. "You want to see your country through my eyes…How would you like to become an honorary vlogger today?"

Surprised, Damon volleyed between his stunning passenger to the camera in her hand. His heart began to pound with worry, anxiety, but more than that, excitement.

 **TBC…**

 **Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are love.**


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